


Chiaroscuro

by LunaKat



Category: Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions, Pocket Monsters: Black 2 & White 2 | Pokemon Black 2 & White 2 Versions
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Black-verse, Canon Divergence, Childhood Friends, F/F, F/M, Growing Up, LGBTQ themes and characters, M/M, PTSD, Realistic Pokemon-verse, Retelling (NOT a novelization), Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-01-07 07:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12228147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/LunaKat
Summary: —A retelling of Gen V"You really are tragic, aren't you, Touya?"Touya Kokuen's life has gone into a tailspin since he turned fifteen and suddenly got tangled in a cold war between the League and an organization of liberation-obsessed cultists. Between ancient myths of dragon-gods and a mysterious king that is as enigmatic as he is fascinating, Touya finds himself struggling to make heads or tails of Plasma's goals, while the clock continues to tick and every second plunges Unova closer to an ultimate endgame.OR"You really think you're something special, don't you?"Rosa Alanderfer had been strongly convinced that Plasma never fully disbanded, and she hates being right. As she storms the region with the intent to fully exterminate the organization once and for all, she also finds herself delving deeper into Plasma's roots, where she makes shocking revelations that have her questioning everything she ever knew about the events of two years ago, and even about herself.





	1. prologue: frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chiaroscuro**  
>  _(noun)_  
>  —the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting.  
> 

_Old legends sleep deep in the earth, cradled by the endless void, longing for the return of their Heroes and to remind the world of the monochrome it buried under color._

.

.

.

**prologue: frustration**

 

"Yes, that's right! I'm talking about Pokémon Liberation!" 

Everyone murmurs uncomfortably—on a hastily-built stage in the town’s center is an aging man with an odd-patterned robe that looks like it’s made of cotton so he _must_ be burning up, and crimson eyes (well, one is concealed artfully by a tinted-glass eyepiece) that contrast sharply with his minty hair. Somehow, despite the midsummer heat, there's not a trace of sweat on his brow as he speaks of things that most people don’t talk about and avoid vehemently.

Pokémon abuse is present, yes, and heavily condemned. There are psychopaths and murderers who slip through the system and end up as Trainers. There is bestiality and poaching and hunting for sport. But people like to stay in their safe little corners, basking in the light and avoiding the darkness. Darkness is not a pleasant subject. Darkness is ugly and unsafe and disgusting, and most people hate the mere mention of it. So these sheltered, happy people are content to stare at the light and ignore the darkness, even if it means going blind from staring at the light so unflinchingly.

But this man is bringing the darkness to the surface and demanding that they look at it, examine it, take responsibility for it.

“It is our solemn duty as human beings to liberate Pokémon from the injustice of our society! Then, and only then, will humans and Pokémon truly be equals—”

“That’s bullshit!” cries a voice from the audience, steadfast and resolute.

The crowd of Lacunosa City murmurs amongst themselves and parts to reveal a young woman, a mere teenager, one with torn shorts and a black vest and a voluminous cascade of chocolate curls tied back in a high ponytail. A pink and white League-issued cap casts a shadow over the upper half of her face, but her blue eyes seem to glow with conviction as she storms towards the stage, and then, without an ounce of hesitation, climbs up to face the man and plant her hands on her hips.

“And you are?” asks the eloquent man with the utmost politeness, though many of his compatriots—hooded men and women with ginger hair and acidic blue eyes and eerily similar haircuts, all likely the result of dye and contacts—do not hesitate to eye the newcomer with disgust. Some of the males eye her bosom, displayed by her tight-fitting white tank, and her exposed olive legs in a rather wolfish fashion, which only deepens her scowl.

“Touko Kokuen,” the girl proclaims. She holds her head high, stands straight and proud, like a warrior-queen. There is a strength to the way she holds herself that proclaims she is a Trainer, even though she has yet to announce it. She is part of the light. “I work for the League. And, as it happens, I love my Pokémon, and they love me. They love _being_ with me. Which is why I think your whole speech is a great big steaming pile of—”

“As a Trainer, do you not think yourself rather biased, given the topic?” the man interrupts evenly. Light is trying to pierce darkness, and he won’t let it. He won’t allow it.

To this, the crowd murmurs in agreement—this girl is biased. She will not give a fair argument. She must not be heeded.

Touko’s eyes narrow. “Is being biased really that terrible? Being a Trainer, I know what I’m talking about.”

“And how to twist the truth to your liking,” retorts the man with the utmost calm and composure, though his smirk betrays him. This is the shadow, the truth that people like to ignore, that people say things without meaning them and lie for their own pleasure.

“Oh, but you can do that without knowing what you’re talking about.” The girl flashes a coy smile, all white teeth and fake sweetness. “For example—are you an abusive Trainer, good sir?”

“ _Pardon_?”

The hooded men and women erupt into outrage, the crowd into startled murmurs. This girl, this Trainer, has some audacity, saying such things to a man that looks so regal and speaks in such a respectable manner.

But Touko Kokuen continues, nonplussed. “Are you an abusive Trainer? Y’know, having experience in abuse and poaching and all these horrible things you talk about?” She waits briefly, and when he doesn’t respond, her lip curls and she nods once, as though she hadn’t expected anything else. “No? Well then who’s to say you know what you’re talking about and aren’t just twisting the truth to _your_ own liking?”

The crowd’s amazed murmurs reach a crescendo.

Touko turns to the crowd, tucking a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear in a fashion that could only be described as smug. She has the power now and she knows it. “Unlike you, Mr. Harmonia, I _have_ experience with Pokémon. I know the life of a Trainer, what we sacrifice and endure for the sake of our teams. How we camp in the wilderness and fight tooth-and-nail to get even an inch bit stronger. How we struggle and persevere to befriend our companions, risk life and limb during those first crucial moments, hoping that they will judge you worth following.” She casts a sidelong glance at the speaker, her lip curling into a faint smirk. “Do you know any of this, Mr. Harmonia? Well?”

Mr. Harmonia doesn’t respond, only glares at her with venomous hate, which makes his crimson eyes burn like lasers. And just like that, light pierces darkness and people lose interest in the shadows that linger and demand their attention.

Touko wears a smirk of triumph. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, good sir. Trainers forge bonds with their Pokémon through blood, sweat, and tears. Each victory is hard-won and hard fought for by both Trainer and Pokémon alike. We don’t force them to fight if they don’t want to. They _choose_ to stand with us.”

She flicks her gaze over to him. “So don’t tell us how to live our lives.”

With a sleek, sauntering gait, Touko Kokuen slides off the stage and melts back into the crowd. She believes she is triumphant, and that now Team Plasma will never get off the ground.

She is wrong. Because the darkness still lingers, and a candle can burn as bright as it wants but it will still cast a shadow. And there are those out there who still twist the truth and take the darkness to use for their own liking. So she, with her light, has only obstructed its spread, but she has stopped nothing.

* * *

Lenora runs a gloved hand over the glassy surface of a strange stone, one of the many artifacts sent here by the expedition team from Relic Castle. It’s a lovely thing, and carbon dating places its making at the height of the ancient Unova dynasty, around the same time period as the Twin Heroes and the split of the kingdom. Lenora knows that glass-blowing didn’t reach its height until after the Twin Heroes had passed away and reunited the kingdom, which is why the dating doesn’t make sense.

What does it symbolize, anyway? What was its purpose, way back when? It certainly looks ornamental, all elegant whirls of smoky glass, but it’s also hard, tough and durable like the ceramic that came from ancient Tohjo, which didn’t start being exported to Unova until a thousand years or so after the Twins’ dynasty had fallen.

It has Lenora baffled, to say the least.

“Hawes, come look at this,” she calls to her partner, who is examining more artifacts on the other table. Hawes pauses and drifts over to come see what is so interesting, so much so that Lenora refuses to look up as her spouse approaches.

Hawes looks between the orb and Lenora. “What is it?”

“I have no idea,” Lenora admits.

And that makes Hawes blink, because Lenora always has some idea of what anything is.

“None?”

“None.” Lenora huffs and plants a hand on her hip. “At first I thought it was a gift or a treasure or something to the king, but I can’t figure out what it’s made of, much less who would make such a thing.”

“Perhaps its meant to be a piece for magic practice,” Hawes suggests. “Alchemists and wizards supposedly carried around staffs with gemstones at their heads.”

“It’s too big,” Lenora dismisses. She has, after all, already considered that. “All the other staffs have much smaller stones. And this isn’t a natural phenomenon like an emerald or a ruby—I think it's manmade.”

Hawes hums, intrigued. “That’s going to make it tricky to label, should we put it on display.”

Lenora turns to her partner, arching a brow in suspicion. “We’re not putting it on display if we don’t know what it is.”

“Oh? And why’s that, dear?”

Lenora crosses her mighty arms, strong and immovable. “It would be an insult to my profession as an archaeologist. I should be able to figure out the use of something—even make an estimated guess—before putting it on display. What if it ends up being just a plain old rock?”

“It certainly doesn’t _look_ like a plain old rock.” Hawes wears a teasing smile. “I think you’re fine in that regard, dear.”

“It’s a matter of principle,” Lenora retorts. From anyone else, it might have sounded pouty, but from her, it is a potent and unyielding statement, something that echoes with authority.

Hawes, not intimidated in the slightest, takes the orb into their hands and adjusts their glasses with a thoughtful hum. “Think of it this way—a mystery piece would certainly attract attention.”

“Yes, but—”

“And we could publicize the ongoing research into figuring out its origins.” Only Hawes is brave enough to dare interrupting the fearsome Lenora, but they are also the only one who won’t be subjected to her wrath.

“But if it’s on display, how—”

“We can make a dummy for the displays.” Hawes sets the orb back down. “And you can continue with your research. Does that sound like a fair compromise?”

Lenora frowns at the orb. She still doesn’t like the idea of announcing her inability to uncover its origins and uses, but Hawes also has a point—the museum isn’t doing too well at the moment and is suffering competition with the ones in Undella and Striaton (mainly Undella, as Striaton’s is small and dedicated more to contemporary history than ancient history). Intrigue will attract attention, and if a dummy is put on display, Lenora can still do her work in discovering the orb’s origins. It’s a small compromise on a moral ground, and while Lenora isn’t known for moral comprises, she thinks this is one time where doing so will do more good than harm.

“Alright,” Lenora relents with a sigh. Only for them. “But this is a one-time exception! Never ask me to do this again!”

Hawes kisses her cheek. “Of course not, dear. Ah, so what do we call it—publicly, I mean?”

Good question. Lenora scans the orb one more time. Was it her imagination, of did she catch a flicker of light beneath its surface, some ember that was seemingly trapped within?

“How about ‘the Light Stone’?” she suggests, and surprises herself when she almost substitutes “light” with “yang”. What was a “yang”, and why did she almost say it?

“Sounds dramatic,” Hawes says approvingly. As the museum’s curator, they do need to have some skill with PR and the appeal of the masses. “Dramatic” is another way of saying “good” or “will get people coming in”. They turn and make for the door. “I’ll call Hal and have him start on a replica.”

Lenora nods absently. Her gaze still remains on the Light Stone and the strange subtle, lambent she swears she’s not imagining. Maybe it’s the lights? No... that doesn’t seem right. Maybe Hawes is onto something with that magic-practice suggestion. This orb certainly seems to have a seemingly supernatural quality about it... maybe priests used it as an instrument of worship in one of their temples to the dragon-gods. Where had the expedition leader said he found it again? In a tomb with the White Prince’s remains?

After staring at it for approximately four minutes, though, she realizes she isn’t going to get anywhere just standing and speculating. With a sigh, she instead turns to examine another artifact—a tribal-style mask that is much less enigmatic, likely used by the apothecaries of ancient times.

As her gloved hands rove more artifacts and her back turns to the Light Stone, she misses the light winking out, almost as if in dissatisfaction. And she does not hear the growl of a sleeping god, anxious for their waking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, after getting so into _Let the dominoes fall_ , I decided to give this a try.
> 
> So I present to you, Chiaroscuro! This will be a retelling of Gen V (set in Black-verse, so it will follow the plot of Black and its sequel, Black 2) with some unique plotpoints, different character interpretations, and a whole lot of creative liberties. I reiterate, this is a _retelling_ , not a _novelization_ , and is therefore not based on any gameplay.
> 
> Be warned that it will update _very_ infrequently.
> 
> (Yes, Hawes is agender, sue me)
> 
> Enjoy!  
> Luna


	2. arc one; chapter one

_"In my beginning is my end."_

_—T. S. Eliott_

.

.

.

**arc 1: carte blanche**

**chapter 1: you're going places kid**

 

_Three years later_

 

There is no response when Melaina raps on the door.

 _They must still be asleep_ , she muses as she turns the doorknob and opens the door. Indeed, they are—the bed is untouched, as is expected during a sleep over, all three of them ensconced in plush sleeping bags on the floor. Bianca is snoring softly in her polka dot cocoon, her hair tussled in the mess of a bedhead. Cheren and Touya are curled up together in a shared sleeping bag, one that is maroon and larger so as to accommodate the space taken up by two bodies. It looks plush, and the pillows from the bed are stolen, pilfered for the sake of a good night’s sleep. Bianca at least lies still, but the boys are all tangled up together, Touya having his face buried in the crook of Cheren’s neck, and Cheren’s glasses laying haphazardly nearby.

The sight of them is amusing to Melaina, and she chuckles despite herself. The part of her that remembers adolescence and recalls hating mornings during that time sympathizes with them, and it makes her reluctant to wake them. However, she knows that the duty falls upon her to rouse them, because they would never forgive her otherwise. Not on today of all days.

“Rise and shine you three!” she calls, singsong and sweet.

They rouse, but only just. Cheren is the early riser of the three, and he does no more than grumble in irritation and furrow his brow at the intrusion of his slumber. Bianca is the lightest sleeper, so Melaina’s voice causes her to shift and roll over, grunting. Touya, who absolutely despises mornings with all the vehemence of a vampire avoiding sunlight and sleeps so deeply you’d suspect he pricks his finger on a spindle every night, doesn’t even react.

Melaina stifles a sigh. Morning wakeups became so much more difficult once her children became teenagers. “This isn’t a negotiation. You all need to get up if you want breakfast.”

The mention of breakfast has Bianca lifting her head and blinking, her olive-green eyes still bleary and dimmed with traces of dreamland. “What was that about breakfast?”

“I made my famous triple chocolate brownies for you three,” Melaina announces, not without a hint of pride. Anyone who had ever tried her brownies had praised her for the moistness and the chocolatiness of her confections, and she’d teasingly say it was a secret recipe whenever anyone asked. In reality, it was just mixing a store-bought package and knowing how to make it properly. The fact remained, though, was that they were delicious and perfect for tempting three lazy teenagers. “If you don’t want them, though I suppose I could just give them away...”

Bianca bolts upright, eyes comically wide. “Oh no no, we’ll take them! Promise!” She then turns to her sleeping companions, one part anxious and three parts excited as she chirps, “Touya! Your mom made brownies and she’ll give ‘em away unless you wake up right now!”

Touya only grumbles discontentedly, which is a definite no, I will not wake up, please stop bothering me and let me vegetate. Bianca’s lips pucker into a miffed pout.

Cheren, however, does get the message, and he raises his head with a few drowsy blinks and a faint yawn in his throat. “Why is everybody yelling about brownies?”

Bianca picks up her pillow and lobs it at them. It hits Cheren in the face, which causes him to yelp in a rather undignified fashion. The blonde remains unmoved, however, and holds herself with a sort of pouty sternness. “Wake up your boyfriend. There’s brownies at stake.”

Cheren tosses the pillow aside, which unfortunately means it lands on poor Touya. The still-sleeping teenager grumbles and bats the projectile away, sinking deeper into the covers and muttering various empty threats that involve a cheese grater. Melaina has no idea why these threats involve a cheese grater, nor where Touya learned them, and she feels, as his mother, as though she should be concerned by that. Perhaps she needs to keep a better eye on his social media activities.

“What time is it?” Cheren asks groggily. He has less of a sweet tooth than Bianca, and is more concerned with punctuality than she could ever be.

Melaina crosses her arms smugly, knowing exactly the response she will get when she answers, “Almost eight.”

As predicted, Cheren straightens immediately, stricken by this news. He’s a sweet boy, but he’s also the type who hates being late and rarely allows himself to sleep in. He runs on self-control and discipline in a way that most people his age don’t. “Are you kidding?”

Melaina shakes her head.

Cheren sits up fully and stretches briefly—the kind of one-armed stretch that always struck Melaina as hasty and half-hearted, which belies just how much Cheren tends to put into everything he does. He then turns to the lump that is her son, cocooned beneath the sleeping bag, and scowls. “Your terrible sleeping habits are rubbing off on me.”

“Stop tryna change me,” her son mutters, voice muffled by layers of plush nylon.

Cheren rolls his eyes and starts blindly fumbling for his glasses, hands sweeping the floor until he finally finds them—a pair of red, half-rimmed lenses that, in Melaina’s opinion, add to the overall seriousness of his features and demeanor. “Get up, lazybones.”

The lump that is Touya curls up tighter.

Bianca groans, clearly dismayed that the promise of brownies was slipping away. Melaina managed a crooked half-smile, partly amused and partly sympathetic.

Cheren, however, has absolutely no sympathy as he rips the blankets off his boyfriend’s back, revealing a lump of a human being. The exposure to light makes Touya yelp and snag the discarded pillow Bianca threw at them, likely trying to make a new barrier between himself and the apparently contemptable light of day—however, Cheren sees through it and grabs it before Touya can bury his head under it like an ostrich in the sand. From there, it devolves into a game of tug-a-war, which is both amusing and slightly exasperating to watch.

“Give it here,” Cheren growls.

Touya has his teeth bared like a cornered animal. “Cher, I love you, but for fuck’s sake _let me sleep, you trice-damned early bird_.”

“Language,” Melaina says robotically, but there’s no feeling behind it. There hasn’t been any feeling behind it since her abysmal failure to curb her daughter’s cursing tendencies, and since then she just hasn’t been able to muster up the motivation to do the same with her son.

Touya finally wins the tug-a-war, ripping the pillow out of Cheren’s hands and then promptly burying himself under it. Say what you will about teenagers, but they were quite stubborn when it came to sleep. Melaina and Bianca share a look of exasperation.

The pillow shields Touya from Cheren’s burning glare. “Dammit, Touya, it’s eight o’clock.”

Touya bolts upright with the alarm of a man who’s been told he’s on fire, eyes comically wide and jaw visibly slack. “I slept _all day_?!”

Neither Cheren or Bianca are particularly surprised by this reaction—and Melaina _expects_ this, because she’s known her son all his life and knows how morning affects his thought process. This, however, doesn’t prevent their incredulous reactions in the slightest. Cheren blinks once in a slow, condescending fashion while Bianca stifles a snicker with her hand. Melaina wears a haphazard smile, caught between exasperation and amusement.

“Eight in the morning, dear,” Melaina clarifies, trying to tamp down a chuckle of mirth. “ _AM_ , not PM.”

The look her own son gives her is condemning in its exasperation. He simply stares, blinking with deliberate slowness, and allows his expression to say it all.

“The hell is your _problem_?” With that, he collapses back into his little nest and buries his face into the plushness of the discarded pillow.

Cheren rolls his eyes in exasperation as he gets to his feet, evidently giving up. Bianca, on the other hand, is not so ready to let it go. Either motivated by brownies or just plain stubbornness, the blonde scoots up to him, comically resembling a Sewaddle as she does (because she doesn’t discard her sleeping bag), with a rather exaggerated pout. If Touya notices the begging look she’s giving him, he doesn’t react to it.

“C’mon, Touya,” Bianca huffs. “Your mom made brownies and I wouldn’t be a good friend if I let you miss out.”

Touya sits up, blinking at her. “She what?”

“Brownies! For breakfast!”

Touya straightens and turns to blink uncomprehendingly at his mother. There’s scepticism in his gaze, a kind of distrustfulness that would have offended Melaina if she didn’t know it was playful in nature. “What are you planning, woman?”

“I don’t what you’re talking about, young man, but you’ll talk to me with respect.” She winces internally at how terrible an actress she is, how unconvincing and fake she sounds. Melaina never was good at faking and playing coy—her children are quite good at that, but she isn’t. The woodenness of her tone betrays her, reveals the rehearsal behind it. She plants her hands on her hips and raises her brows in hopes that looking intimidating will throw him off.

It doesn’t work. He only looks more suspicious.

“Why would you make brownies for _breakfast_?” Touya eyes her as though he’s expecting her to admit it was all an elaborate trap to poison him (meanwhile Cheren comments on Bianca’s bedhead and she shrieks, desperately trying to straighten it out). “You’re the one who says sugar rots your teeth and all that crap. This is not like you. What’s going on, Mom? Is someone dying?”

“No, dear.”

“...someone came _back_ from the dead?”

The wariness in her tone almost makes her laugh—that, and the statement itself. “Of course not!”

His expression changes to exasperation. “Then _what_?”

Melaina sighs. Her son is too smart and she’s too bad a liar to make it work. Deciding that playing coy is too exhausting, she gestures towards the door with her head. “Go downstairs and see yo— _ahem_. See for yourself.”

And then she forces herself to leave before she inadvertently blurts out the word “present”.

* * *

Touya only follows his mom because he’s severely worried and _not_ because he’s enticed by brownies. He knows his mother, and she is the type of mother who uses her talent for baking brownies and other sweet treats to soften harsh blows. Like when she was announcing their move to Nuvema Town when he was four, after being evicted from their house due to foreclosure and the general high prices of houses in Striaton City, impossible to maintain on a single salary and the pension of a retired Trainer. And then again when he was eleven and Touko went missing, only to send a postcard a month later to reveal that she’d started her journey despite their mother’s many objections to Touko becoming a Trainer and likely would not be returning home any time soon. And then two years later, when Touya was thirteen and she explained to him that she was starting to date again, because it had been a decade since his dad passed away and she felt ready to move on.

The point is, brownies are reserved for either major change or bake sales. And it’s summer. School’s out. There are no bake sales.

There is only one explanation—his mother is engaged. Or something. Which doesn’t quite make sense because she’s not involved with anyone currently, as far as he knows, but it’s either that, or they’re moving, or she lost her store or a new butchery is opening up or _something_. Something is going to change the entire structure of their lives, something is going to send their life into a tailspin and oh god someone’s dying. Someone’s fucking dying and the world is ending, holy shit.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Cheren and Bianca both shouting at him to slow down, he is quite befuddled to find a brightly-colored present box sitting on the island counter.

Then it clicks.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, dazed by the epiphany. He hears footsteps as Cheren and Bianca join him. “Shit, I’m fifteen today.”

Fifteen. Well, damn, that _is_ pretty life-changing.

Cheren stares at him with his undisguised disbelief. “You forgot your own birthday.”

Touya flushes, because yes, he did. Shut up. “Hey! My morning brain sucks, okay?”

Cheren continues to stare.

“Quit it!”

Bianca flits over to the island with a cloying eagerness and plops down on a chair. “So did you really make brownies or was that just something you said to get us to come down here?” she asks Touya’s mom, who has found her way back to the kitchen.

His mother lets out an amused chuckle and reaches for a pan covered in tinfoil, unleashing a chorus of crinkling noises as her hands close around the handles. She sets it down on the counter, which has Bianca’s eyes glowing with eagerness, half because Bianca’s sweet tooth is practically infamous at this point and half because Touya can count with one hand the number of people who are likely to refuse his mom’s brownies. Even Cheren, who looks perpetually bored with the world and mornings in general, is ambling over to the counter with poorly-concealed eagerness.

Touya follows with an eyeroll. However, rather than the sight of brownies, his eyes immediately falls on the giant meat cleaver, the blade stained with fresh blood, that sits on the corner. His Mom seems to realize where he was looking, because her expression becomes suffused with embarrassment and she discretely tucks it under the sink. Thankfully, it seems he was the only one that noticed.

He chooses not to comment. When your mother is the town’s artisan butcher, the sight of a bloody cleaver is something you grow used to, just like how he’s not bothered by the sight of raw meat or blood anymore. Most of the parents at his school whisper things about how it was unsafe environment for a child to grow up in, living so close to the woods (on the far edge of town, not in the safe, cookie cutter suburbs with the rest of the small town population) and having a mother who can literally hack apart a pig corpse and then string it up in a meat cooler full of dismembered animal parts, who has deer antlers mounted on the wall and a pair of crossed, old-fashioned musket rifles hanging over the fireplace. But the simple fact was that Melaina Kokuen wasn’t like the other PTA moms—she’s the sort of woman who knows how to fire a shotgun and hunts for deer as a pastime, who loves to hike in the woods whenever she’s given the opportunity, and she can stew just about anything, from rabbit to opossum. Touya’s mother was a former Trainer, a woman who survived in the wild and thrived as her own master for a time, and she was an amazon among a throng of housewives, hiding visible bulges of muscle beneath her sleeves. She’s a hell of a woman, Melaina Kokuen, and a damn good mother, so the rest of those gossipy bitches can shove it, as far as Touya is concerned.

Instead, he focuses back on the present on the counter, eyeing it with all the caution of someone expecting a viper to jump out. The wrapping paper is bright red with a variety of geometric designs—his mom _hates_ geometric designs. Some shit about how she got sick of them during math class back in her day, and how she can no longer stand the sight of them. The point is, she would never buy wrapping paper like that, so it’s not from her. And it’s probably not from Cheren or Bianca either, because Cheren prefers cool colors and Bianca is partial to pastels. Which means it’s from someone else. Who is it from, why is it here—

“Really?” comes his mom’s chiding voice. He glances back at her to see her hands on her hips and her lips puckered into a pout that looks a tad too childish to fit properly. A cake cutter juts out from her fist. “I make brownies, and you can’t even enjoy them? My, what an ungrateful son.”

“What! I wasn’t—”

“Shush.” She places a pair of brownies on a plate, which she then sets down in front of Touya with an audible clink of ceramic against the marble. “Eat a brownie. Enjoy your birthday. Stop with the serious look.”

Touya’s brows furrow. What is she playing at?

“Oh!” Bianca claps once, her eyes sparkling with realization and brownie crumbs cling to the sides of her mouth. “That reminds me—presents! Mrs. Kokuen, where did you hide them?”

Wait—hidden presents? What? When—Touya arrived at the house _with_ Cheren and Bianca yesterday, and they pretty much stayed together the whole night. When would they have smuggled presents in?

“In the closet dear,” Mom answers pleasantly. “I can get—”

Bianca is already up and darting down the hall. In her wake, she singsongs, “Nope, I got it.”

Touya is still wondering when the hell they got presents in here, or bought him presents. Teleportation? Holy shit, is one of them psychic and they never told him?

Noticing Touya’s expression, Cheren rolls his eyes as though the explanation is obvious, which it _isn’t_ —

“We bought stuff and brought it here a couple days ago,” he explains flatly.

—or, okay, maybe the explanation is obvious. Touya should have thought of that. Really. His morning brain just outright sucks. He needs coffee or Mountain Dew or something with caffeine, something that’ll wake him up and jumpstart his neuroprocessing.

Bianca returns with a skip in her step, two present bags in her left arm and one in her right. She sets them down on the island with a grin the speaks of barely-contained excitement, then plops down in her seat in a manner that reminds Touya a little of a Lillipup forced to sit when a dog biscuit is just within reach, but the owner keeps saying stay, good girl, stay, and so the Lillipup doesn’t move, even though it wants nothing more than to snap that treat up. It’s nothing she says, of course, but those big eyes are silently pleading, _Open them, open them, open them, I want to see your reaction_.

Touya turns to Cheren with a dubious look. “Really? Right now?”

“Just humor her,” Cheren says in a tone that implies he’s also secretly eager to see Touya’s reaction.

Touya heaves a great sigh as he turns back to Bianca, then eyes the bags. One powder blue bag overflowing with green tissue paper (from Cheren), one pastel pink bag with a big lilac bow plastered on the side (from Bianca), and one striped by yellow and orange with a flurry of white billowing out from the top (from Mom). Okay. Okay. His head is still fuzzy from morning-drowsiness, and he’d rather wait until he’s more awake to do this, but okay, he’ll open presents now.

He grabs the one from Bianca first, because he knows hers is the one she’s most anxious for him to open. After discarding the tissue paper carelessly and casting aside the card, too, to read later, he gapes at what he finds at the bottom of the bag.

“Holy _shit_.” While his Mom chastises his cursing, Touya pulls out a brand-new sketchbook—one of a seemingly higher quality than any of the ones he’s previously owned—which is paired with a whole slew of supplies. A pack of charcoal pencils, charcoal sticks and wedges, a kneaded eraser, a pack of blending tools. And his jaw _drops_ , because this is all very high-quality gear and he can’t _believe_ Bianca splurged on this for him. “Oh my god, _Bianca_. This is fucking _awesome_.”

“Language,” Mom sighs, but goes mostly ignored.

Bianca beams in a most self-satisfied fashion. “I know you said you wanted to experiment with charcoal at some point, so...”

Touya is still marveling at his gift. It’s a well-known fact that Bianca Crowley never skimps out on birthday presents, but _still_. Holy _shit_. “Thank you _so goddamn much_ , I love you, oh my _god_.”

He makes a move to hug her, but Cheren grabs him by the collar and yanks him back. “Save the ostentatious shows of gratitude until after you’ve opened all of them,” Cheren mutters, “otherwise this is going to take forever.”

“And you’ll forget to read the card,” Bianca agrees with a light laugh.

Touya thinks those statements are heavily inaccurate, but fine. Okay. He sets the art supplies back inside the bag and places the bag back on the counter, replacing it with Cheren’s gift.

Again, he casts aside the tissue paper and the card for later, and again is amazed at the treasure he finds at the bottom. With shaking hands and deliberate slowness, he pulls out the kit—it’s a deluxe sketching kit, complete with a full pack of graphite pencils, compressed color sticks, high-quality pastels and colored chalk, delicate-looking colored pencils, a miniature mannequin for reference, and more. The case it comes in alone looks as though it costs a fortune, all shiny chrome and briefcase-like, with a black leather handle. He marvels at this thing, this expensive token, and has to wonder what he did to deserve being spoiled like this.

“Oh my fucking god.” He turns to Cheren, eyes bulging. “You... you...”

“You tend to say ‘oh my god’ a lot,” Cheren deadpans, though the corner of his lip twitches in amusement. “Do you realize that?”

Suddenly not caring that there are spectators, Touya pulls his boyfriend into a hug and kisses him—hard. It lasts for approximately ten seconds before Cheren pushes him off roughly. The look his boyfriend gives him is both irritated and strangely pleased, with a little bit of smugness thrown in as he examines Touya’s expression.

“I take that to mean you like it, then.”

It is probably humiliating to admit, but Touya is sure he’s starting to cry. He sets the kit aside, hands trembling. “Like it? _Like it_? You are the best boyfriend to _have ever existed_.”

This time, when he hugs Cheren, Cheren doesn’t push him off or fight, just pats Touya awkwardly on the back, muttering something about how this was a really disgraceful display, Touya, you’re embarrassing yourself, y’know.

Bianca giggles. “You guys are so cute.”

“I’d still prefer if you didn’t curse,” Mom says in a tone that is more amused than reprimanding.

“I love you so much,” Touya mumbles into Cheren’s shoulder.

Cheren sighs and mutters something about how Touya is _extremely_ undignified and altogether embarrassing, but still doesn’t push him away.

After a while, Mom clears her throat, and the two pull apart. She wears a wry smile and the glint in her eyes is the kind that mothers get when they watch their kids get intimate with their significant other, like, _oh I’m so proud my baby found someone to be all lovey-dovey with_. “I hate to break up the moment, boys—”

“Boo,” Bianca says with a childish pout.

“—but you have a couple more presents to open, mister.”

“Right, right, right.” Save the grandiose displays of gratitude for afterwards. Blah, blah, blah.

He reaches for the third bag—but his Mom swats his hand away. She grabs it herself and slips it under the island with all the briskness of a mother trying to protect her child.

“What—”

“I recommend opening _this_ one first,” she explains, pushing the present box a little closer. Her smile grows a little forced, but her eyes give away nothing. “Otherwise it won’t make much sense.”

Touya blinks, perplexed. He glances at Cheren and Bianca, and they seem as puzzled as he is. “Okay?”

He reaches for the bow, and again, she swats at his hand.

“Ah, ah, ah. The card, mister,” she says, waving her finger in a scolding manner.

At this, he narrows his eyes, his earlier suspicions returning with a vengeance and hardening inside his gut. He never opens the card first. He always saves that for last. It has always been an unfortunate habit of his, one that she has never bothered to correct, and has in fact remarked that she finds it endearing. This has to have some connection with her odd behavior, he reasons. The brownies, waking him up early, and the look she’s currently giving him, intense and meaningful and pleading—all of it is culminating into some sort of explanation that is just beyond his understanding. Something is going on here, something has happened. Something to do with today...

_And the answer is in that present box._

Okay. Card it is then.

He plucks it from underneath the bow—this small, creamy little envelope—and continues to eye her cautiously as he peels it open. It’s just a folded-up piece of stark white parchment, completely unremarkable in every way possible. The only thing of interest is that, when Touya unfolds it, he doesn’t recognize the loopy scrawl that mars the surface in indigo(?) pen ink. The fact that he doesn’t recognize the handwriting only confirms what he already knows, that the writer is a stranger and the gift is from someone unknown.

“Read it aloud,” his mother commands. Her gaze is lifting too far up, going over his head, like she can’t bear to look at him.

Again, he narrows his eyes at her, but he does as asked.

_Dear Touya,_

_First off, I would like to congratulate you on your fifteenth birthday! It’s a major milestone, and it’s hard to believe how old you all are. I still remember the days when you and your friends used to sneak around outside my lab in order to get a peek at some of the Pokémon (yes, I did see you, despite what you believe, you were horrible at stealth). It almost makes me feel old, but that’s not what we’re here to talk about._

_It’s come to my attention that you and your friends all desire to start out on journeys of your own. I, as a former backpacker and a professor who has seen off many prospective Trainers in the past, cannot be more pleased. So, I’ve decided to assist you in your ambitions by adding your named to the list of Trainers being sponsored by the Juniper Labs program._

_Once you’re done selecting your starters, stop by my lab in order to receive your licenses. I’ve already contacted the League and registered your names into the system._

_Sincerely yours,_  
_Prof. Aurea Juniper_

By the time Touya finishes the letter, his jaw is slack and probably not going to close anytime soon, because holy mother of a Snorlax, is this for real? He turns to Bianca in disbelief and finds her eyes round, shining and glittering with the same incredulous hope he can feel building in his sternum. She eyes the letter in wonder, as though it’s some sort of godsend. Touya turns to Cheren, but Cheren is also similarly flummoxed, disbelieving but hopeful, and an elation that comes from a pleasant dream you don’t want to wake up from, even though you know it’s impossible to stay asleep forever. Then Touya looks back down at the letter—it is white an innocuous, the text plain and flourished, but if he is honest, he is half-expecting three golden tickets to flutter out from the fold, or for the paper to magically transform into gold leaf, or something spectacular and significant.

A journey. A license. Starters. No way. No way, no way, _no no way_ —

He peers up at his Mom with an awed sort of disbelief, half-wishing she could debunk this and half-wishing she would confirm that yes, it is real, this is not a dream.

But she doesn’t do either of those things. Instead, she just stares with a sort of bittersweet heaviness in her eyes, her mouth pursed into a funny little smile that looks a little not quite right on her face. Her brows are raised playfully, as if daring him to challenge her on the letter’s validity, but at the same time, her eyes are half-lidded and misty in a way that is far too solemn. It’s odd mix of proud, mournful, and hint of fear—it’s a mother who is watching their children leave them behind, knowing they are going to forge a brand-new path without them.

Touya’s throat feels tight.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she says in voice that is barely a whisper, but rich with warmth. She places a hand on the box, which assures him that yes, it is real, she can see it too, it’s not a hallucination borne of wistful thinking. “Your options are Tepig, Snivy, and Oshawott, by the way. Choose wisely.”

The reality of the situation hits Touya like a brick to the head. His head throbs from the imagined impact, and he feels dizzy, overwhelmed. A journey. A license. Leaving this town, traveling Unova, collecting badges—it’s all going to happen. It’s all going to come true. He can scarcely believe it, can scarcely comprehend this sudden turn of events.

He eyes the present again, still a little bit disbelieving. The colors are brilliant, vibrant and glowing, the ribbons and decorative paper downright beautiful. He doesn’t remember if it’s always looked that way, or if his perception has been changed by the knowledge that hiding behind those colors is his starter, his future partner, his ticket to becoming a Trainer. And the letter—the letter said “you three”, which meant him, Cheren, and Bianca, and it is just like he’d always hoped and dreamed, back since they were little kids and they made pinky promises to all set out on journeys together and become rivals, all link arms and take that first step with their partners perched upon their shoulders. Now it’s happening.

It’s happening.

“This is real,” he hears himself murmur. He’s not sure if it’s his own thoughts spilling out of him or if he’s trying to convince himself that he’s not dreaming. “This is actually happening—this actually happening!”

Mom side-eyes Cheren and Bianca, who are in a similar state of wistful disbelief. “This extends to you both as well, you know. I hope you realize that.”

Bianca gapes openly and looks like she wants to protest, but is far too scared that the privilege will actually be provoked. “S-Seriously?”

Cheren adjusts his glasses in a way that _suggests_ composure, but Touya can see the tremble in his hand, the way the corner of his mouth keeps twitching like it wants to pull back into a grin. He is fighting his excitement, but that just means he _is_ excited. “It’s a little unconventional for the Professor to send Touya a gift meant for all of us...”

Touya finds a grin inching its way onto his face, and, in a sudden burst of mirth, elbows Cheren lightly. “Dude. It’s my birthday. Enjoy yourself—have brownies.”

Cheren’s mouth puckers into a small frown—it’s the closest thing to a pout you’ll get out of him.

Bianca gingerly taps Touya on the shoulder. He turns to her, and she gestures shyly towards the present box. “You should definitely pick first. ‘Cause it’s your birthday and all.”

Oh, yeah. Right. Right. Pokémon. Becoming a Trainer. Starters. Tepig, Snivy, Oshawott. Wow, he feels dizzy.

He reaches for the present box—the paper feels waxy but thin, insubstantial like it could tear beneath his touch. Which, wow, is probably the whole _point_ , wrapping paper is _supposed_ to tear, but it feels like something this momentous should be a lot stronger, a lot sturdier. He grabs at the bow, peels it off slowly, watching the dried glue stretch and snap, until at last it’s not connected at all.

Touya holds his breath as he removes the lid. He feels like it should be a momentous action, something marked by trumpets or fireworks or confetti cannons going off, but nothing happens. Because there is no fanfare for this sort of thing, and just because it’s important to you doesn’t mean that the rest of the world thinks the same, or that anyone else will remember that moment for the same specialness. It’s a personal perception sort of thing.

The contents are unremarkable. They consist of three plain-looking orbs, the top half crimson and the bottom half milky white, divided down the center by an obsidian band, with a single white button at the front. They just sit there, silent and commonplace, but he swears the buttons staring at him, gleaming, like eyes—waiting, expectant.

His heart pounds in his ears.

He skims his fingers across the tops—his hands are trembling, and he swears time has slowed. This is momentous, the choice. It will define his early career as a Trainer, and its temperament with define how he interacts with the rest of his team. Every little factor must be taken into account, because it affects absolutely everything. Its temperament will affect what sort of Pokémon he’ll catch in the future, how they interact with each other, what sort of strategy he’ll build from that foundation. _Everything_.

His pointer finger pauses on the central Ball for some reason. “What’s this one?”

Mom blinks, then peers up at the ceiling, eyes rolling back slightly as if in thought. “...Snivy, I believe. Oshawott is to the right, and Tepig to the left.”

Cheren and Bianca share a glance. Touya keeps his finger firm on the Snivy’s Ball—he’s heard all about Unova’s patented starters, three special breeds that are nearing extinction and can only be given out by government-approved institutions (like Juniper labs). There were similar trios in other regions, and why the pattern existed in the first place was still being researched, but anyway. The Tepig line is physically offensive, bulky, fierce and hardy; they could take a great deal before their strength gave out and like true Fighting-Types, they were fearless and stubborn and never yielded without a fight. Oshawott line specializes in mixed attacks, a little slow but versatile, particularly their move pool; and they were valiant, fearsome and honorable and loyal to a fault, docile and easy to gain the trust of. But the Snivy line are proud, vain, and held particularly high expectations of their Trainers; their speed and resilience are formidable, and because of the multitude of weaknesses pure Grass-Types sport, this line is notorious for being the type of Pokémon only a strategic mind could fully utilize.

Well, Touya always likes a challenge.

His hand closes around Snivy’s Ball, and he lifts it from the container. The Ball glints metalically, the central button winking in an almost conspiratorial manner, like, _good job, kid, you made the right call, picking me_.

He gives a decisive nod. “I’ll take the Snivy.”

No sooner have the words left his mouth than Bianca and Cheren’s arms shoot out to snatch up the remaining Balls with twin shrieks of “I call the Tepig/Oshawott!” that blast Touya’s eardrums. Their hands fumble around the box, tearing at it, and emerge each proudly holding their own Balls up to the light, like the Golden Apple awarded to Aphrodite.

Touya massages his left ear. They really didn’t waste any time, the vultures. “Thanks guys. Just what I always want for my birthday—to go deaf.”

“Sorry Touya!” Bianca squeaks, only to clamp her mouth shut when she realizes how shrill she was.

Cheren just rolls his eyes. “Stop exaggerating.”

Touya, in the typical fashion of a teenage boy, elbows him in the ribs. Cheren, also in the typical fashion of a teenage boy, elbows him back.

“Boys,” Mom interrupts before it can turn into a full-fledged fight. Her mouth twitches into a not-quite smile. “Shouldn’t you be rushing off to the Professor’s to get your licenses?”

At the word “Professor”, Bianca springs from her seat like a wind-up toy someone decided to crank on a whim. She spits out some word-salad garbage and immediately makes for the door. It swings open so hard he can feel the audible slam of it hitting the wall—then she’s just a blur, and then she’s gone. The door continues to swing on its hinges in a slow, pendulum-like motion before it creaks to a halt.

Touya exchanges a look with Mom and Cheren exchange a look. Then his boyfriend sighs and gets up, ambles over to the doorway, sticks his head out the doorway, and calls, “Bianca, at the very least, get dressed first!”

_Three... two... one—_

Cheren jumps out of the way, just in time for Bianca to bolt back into the house, her bare feet skidding clumsily and audibly across the hardwood floor. She manages to stop before she slides into the dining room, which Touya thinks is a victory on her part. Briefly, she turns to them with wide eyes and a flushed face and words spilling from her mouth so fast that they jumble and blur together in this sort of chaotic, haphazard word-salad that Touya can barely make out. He hears the word “change” just as she bolts up the stairs, and then the sound of door slamming reaches them.

Silence falls on the kitchen.

“...did she just lock herself in my room?”

Cheren gives Touya a _duh_ look as he closes the front door. “Are you _really_ surprised?”

No, but Touya feels the need to highlight the fact that, to an outsider, this would be considered abnormal behavior.

“I could call the Professor and warn her you might be late,” Mom offers. Her brows are drawn together in an almost apologetic fashion, as though this is somehow inadvertently her fault.

But Touya shakes his head. The Professor knows them, and how Bianca is, so they’ll be fine. She’ll understand. “It’s fine. I’m sure Bianca’ll be done soon anyway.”

“She’d better not make us late,” Cheren grumbles sulkily. This may be normal behavior for Bianca, but that doesn’t mean they have to like it. Not to mention her tendency of running late directly contradicts Cheren’s obsession with punctuality.

There’s a bang from upstairs, and Touya prays that Bianca, with her incessant klutziness, hasn’t knocked over his TV. If she has, he swears to by all the ancient gods, he’s going to make her pay for a replacement.

Mom pushes a plate of untouched brownies forward, one brow quirked in a quizzical expression. “Why don’t you enjoy some brownies in the meantime? I’d feel a lot better if you ate something.”

He casts the brownies a sidelong glance. His mother’s baking is moist and chocolaty and melt-in-your-mouth-fantastic, and he’s willing to accept them now that he knows they aren’t a cover up for bad news. Plus, if he’s honest with himself, his stomach is cramping a little from hunger. He gives her a grunt that is neither acceptance nor denial as he takes a bite, and yeah, it’s delicious, no surprise there.

It hits him, suddenly, that he might not have these brownies for a long, long time. He won’t get the chance when he’s on the road, beyond town, maybe on the other side of the region—

—battling, earning Gym badges, training his team, living his dream.

This is _happening_.

He can’t get over it, the fact that they’re all going to go out and travel, just like they’d always wanted, like they’d always talked about. They’d shared this dream, this wanderlust and longing, since they were maybe seven or eight, and now, at fifteen, they were all going to indulge in their childhood fantasy. Outside of Nuvema, the entire world sprawls out, wild and endless and just ripe for the taking, waiting for them to blaze their own trails. Gyms are waiting for them, standing tall and imposing and polished, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ for worthy challengers—

There’s a long stretch of silence, punctuated by Cheren impatiently tapping his foot. Touya’s nerves buzz.

Mom’s mouth twitches. Touya doesn’t need to look to know she’s twitching, because if there’s one thing he inherited from hee (looks not being on the list), it’s the inability to suffer long silences. She immediately turns to the old-style coffee pot next to the toaster and powers it up. “I’m making coffee. You boys want anything?”

Well, he is still pretty tired, and the brownies are rich as hell. He wouldn’t mind something to wash it down with. “Three creams and five sugars.”

“Black,” Cheren says off listlessly.

Touya, who cannot stomach the bitter taste of unfiltered coffee, clucks his tongue. “Blasphemy.”

“Shut up.” Cheren travels back over to the counter and retrieves his chosen Ball, which he’d left behind once Bianca had run out. Her Ball sits on the counter too, also forgotten. Cheren picks up the sphere and regards it with a considering look. “We could use this time to meet our partners.”

Touya’s gaze darts back to his own Ball, sitting next to his plate. It’s not a bad idea, and the central button is eyeing him expectantly, impatiently, with a sort _what are you waiting for?_ kind of look. He takes it into his hand. “Good idea.”

Mom’s whirls around just as he presses the button. Her eyes grow wide with horror. “Not in here!”

Too late. Just as she cries out, the Ball splits and a blinding white light flares throughout the kitchen. Touya nearly drops the Ball as he throws a hand over his eyes.

The spots slowly fade from Touya’s vision, but only with the assistance of lots and lots of blinking. His vision settles—on a serpent of some kind, small and verdant-colored, curled up on the island and hunkered down as if in fear. Bewilderment and apprehension is written across its long, sharp-snouted face, its eyes brown and wide and bladed. Tension is wrought in its muscles, bristling, coiled in itself protectively, the three-pronged leaf on the tip of its tail shielding its face like a geisha’s fan. It alternates between glaring at Touya through the gaps of its leaf and eyeing the surroundings.

Touya feels pinned under its gaze, like a corpse ready for dissection. He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile, one that will calm its agitated state, and slowly, slowly, raises his hands, palms facing outwards, in a nonthreatening manner. “Hi. You’re Snivy, right? I’m Touya—”

The Snivy cuts him off with a sharp, disapproving hiss, then leaps over to the other counter.

It barely misses it, though, and it hooks its claw-tipped paws onto the lip of the counter, scrabbling at the marble surface. Touya watches in a mix of amazement and bewilderment as something hardened in its expression, and it began to swing its body like a pendulum—then summersaulted, and landed perfectly on its feet.

Touya’s brows rise, and he begins to stand in his seat when he realizes the implications of a Snivy running loose in the kitchen.

Cheren does, too, because he makes a move towards the counter—just as the Snivy turns and leaps over a tangle of wires, heading straight for the microwave. And that’s when Mom reacts.

She bears down on it with lightning-fast reflexes and all the ferocity of a mountain cat, snaps her hand around the snake’s tail. The Snivy lets out a sharp squeal, caught off-guard, and immediately begins to writhe in a vain attempt to escape, rolling and twisting and lashing, the claw-tips of its arms leaving shallow marks in the counter’s marble surface, fangs bared and poised to draw blood. But the moment it whirls around to snap at her wrist, Mom’s other hand flashes out and takes hold its curling yellow collar, effectively restraining its head. She hoists it up, practically having to tear it from the counter, and then holds it out at arm length, her face set with a grim sort of determination, the kind that does not break or give way under any sort of duress.

The Snivy continues its fit, writhing and hissing and spitting, eyes wildly flashing about in every direction and so, so wide that Touya can make out the whites around its massive auburn irises. Every muscle bristles, taught with the aggression of a cornered animal—it tries to bite and scratch at Mom’s wrist, arms and legs flailing in desperation, but her grip is firm and patient, and she’s restrained it in such a fashion that it can’t reach her with its limbs nor reach its head around to sink its fangs into anything but empty air.

The show of ferocity clearly unnerves Cheren, because he backs away and slips back behind the safety of the island. Touya hesitates, not sure if he should interfere, because her expression possesses a grim calmness that suggests that she’s done this thousands of times before and has since grown bored of the routine.

Eventually, the Snivy begins to calm—it starts to fuss less, its hissing becomes less frequent, and its eyes gradually begin to dart around less. Its tail still lashes with agitation and its sides continue to heave, but at least it isn’t thrashing with a wild sort of desperation anymore. Mom gives a decisive nod, and places it on the island, pinning it down with a gentle pressure. Its gaze settles on Touya, eyes wide and entreating.

“I will let you go once you calm down,” Mom tells the Snivy calmly. Her gaze is firm, unwavering, but not harsh. “Are you calm now?”

The Snivy’s tail lashes once, then stills.

“Can you promise not to run amok in my nice kitchen?”

The Snivy’s tongue flicks out.

“Good.” She gives a decisive nod, then slowly loosens her grip, allowing the Snivy to shimmy loose and right itself onto its hind legs. It lashes its tail as if shaking off mud and shoots the woman a derisive glare, sticking its tongue out, but she doesn’t notice, because she turns a disapproving eye to Touya, and, to a lesser extend, Cheren. “You never let a Pokémon out inside, even if it is one that grew up in the labs. Being suddenly immersed in artificial scents can be shocking. If you’re ever going to let one out, introduce an element of the wild into the area—flowers, pine needles, the sound of running water. That sort of thing. Understand?”

Touya straightens and gulps. Her gaze could bore a hole into steel. “Yes ma’am.”

She lets out a hmph that is neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. The coffee pot beeps (which makes the Snivy tense up) and she turns away to tend to it. “Good.”

Touya’s gaze shifts to the Snivy. Its tail waves in a slow, agitated rhythm, like a metronome set into motion, and it looks at least thirty-two kinds of disgruntled as it levels Mom’s back with a particularly dirty look. He wonders if he should say something comforting, but nothing is coming out. Probably says a lot about his capabilities as a Trainer, making a blunder like this so early—he should have known not to let it out indoors, how could he have forgotten that? Been so stupid?

Cheren eyes the Ball in his hand thoughtfully, glances briefly at the Snivy, then peers at the staircase. “I think I’m going to see what’s taking Bianca.”

Touya grunts, but his gaze is still trained on the Snivy. The noise startles it and it turns, blinking, as though it forgot he was here and only just remembered.

He hears Cheren’s footsteps retreating up the stairs. Meanwhile, the Snivy narrows its eyes and flicks its tongue out.

“Sorry,” he finds himself muttering. “Probably should have waited a while, huh?”

The Snivy snorts, looking away.

Touya sighs and scratches the back of his head. “I got excited, I guess. Impatient. I’ve—never had a Pokémon of my own, and I really wanted to _meet_ you and—”

It thrusts its tail up as it sits down, back to him.

“...and you’re a dick,” Touya concludes flatly. _Wonderful. Stellar job Touya. Your starter hates you. You’re going places kid, really. Truly spectacular work._ He picks up the Snivy’s Ball again. “You wanna go back in?”

The Snivy glances over its shoulder, pinning him with the most disdainful expression Touya has ever seen in his life. Without a word or an explanation, it taps the central button with its tail, allowing red light to reclaim it once more.

_...okay then._

Touya sets the Ball down with a sigh. He knew from the get-go that he would have to earn the Snivy's trust, he just hadn't expected to start off on such a low note.  _What a day._

A white mug of something steaming and dark amber is set down in front of him with a clink of ceramic against marble. Though partially obstructed, he could make out the inscription of “#1 Mom” in sloppy black letters that have definitely been hand-painted by someone who was in a rush, which only dampens his mood because, wow, this was the birthday gift Touko gave mom a few years ago. She basically bought a plain mug and painted it, wrapped it up in cheap paper, and claimed it was homemade. He wonders if the fact that he’s drinking from a half-assed present says something about his current predicament.

“Snivy are pompous assholes,” his Mom says in a patient tone, one that she uses when she is trying to sympathize and lecture at the same time. “Don’t worry—it’ll come around. You made a rookie mistake, sweetie, don’t let it bother you. Remember, Touko had some trouble with Mitzi when she first started.”

Touya opens his mouth to object, to remind Mom that Mitzi just gnawed on furniture and it had nothing to do with Touko’s starter having such a low opinion of her—but then he hears shouting from upstairs.

Bianca, loud and shrieking: “Stop being a pervert and let me change!”

Touya’s brows rise.

Cheren, equally loud but more indignant: “I am not being a pervert by asking you to hurry the hell up!”

Mother and son share a bewildered glance.

“You walked in _while I was changing_!”

“You were taking forever and _I didn’t see anything_!”

Mom just sighs in a way that is amused and exasperated at the same time. “Are you _sure_ I shouldn’t call Aurea?”

Touya listens as his friends continue to argue—

“You are waaaaay too obsessed with punctuality, Cher! That’s no excuse to barge in on a half-naked woman!”

“You’re already dressed! The only thing _not_ ready is your _hair_!”

—and turns to her with a sheepish nod. “Yeah, maybe you should... We’re gonna be here a while.”

* * *

**Current team:**

_[Spoiler], male Snivy, lv 5_  
_Adamant nature, Somewhat vain_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everybody! Wow, I got sixteen kudos and little over a hundred views on the prologue alone... I'm so flattered.
> 
> So here you are, guys. Basically, Touya had his friends over for the day before in celebration of his birthday (which was the next day and he forgot because he is absolutely _not_ a morning person), resulting in a sleep over, as seen when Melaina first comes in. I tried to put a spin on the boring intro, because that's been done a hundred times before. I don't know if I was fully successful, though...
> 
> But anyway! Thank you everybody who's read so far and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Yours truly,  
> Luna


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